


It's How She Says It

by lousy_science



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Birds of Prey (Comic), DC Cinematic Universe, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: ASMR, Alternate Universe, Canon Disabled Character, Coffee Shops, F/M, Gotham City - Freeform, Meet-Cute, YouTube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-16 14:10:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12344244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lousy_science/pseuds/lousy_science
Summary: It's summer in Gotham City and Dick Grayson isn't getting any sleep. That changes when he discovers videos posted by a mysterious YouTube user called Oracle ASMR.





	1. Loud as a Whisper

Dick Grayson had never had problems sleeping. But that summer, Gotham City hit him with a trifecta of delights: record-breaking heat, road works on the street outside his building, and a new neighbor with aspirations of being the next Deadmau5 or Diplo or whoever. Plus, he wasn’t in the best mood, what with the renovation at the precinct, his favorite gym being closed during renovations, and the torn tendon in his knee. 

His knee was wrapped up in a black brace, which looked kinda awesome. As the server at his favorite café remarked. “Looks like there’s a good war story behind that!”

There was not. He had been bested by a flight of concrete stairs that someone had dropped a bottle of salad dressing on; he slipped, gravity did its job, and Dick wouldn’t be dancing the can-can anytime soon. If he took proper care of it, he knew he could avoid surgery, but it meant six weeks of rehab, pulling out of a rock climbing trip that he’d been looking forward to for months, and being the annoying guy who sat with one leg outstretched like a safety hazard-slash-manspreading jackhole. 

The heat seemed to cling to the walls of his bedroom, and sometimes he found himself retreating to the bathroom to lie down on the cooling tiles like a repentant drunk. He’d always resisted air con. Growing up in tents and vans, it had always seemed like an unnecessary luxury, and he’d prided himself on toughing it out. 

But when it was hot in Gotham, it was suffocating. And it felt like every time he tried to rearrange himself into a more restful position, his knee would spasm, and the older Dick got, the longer it took to recover from injuries. While Dick had never had problems sleeping before, this summer had proved that he could rely on lessons in unwanted endurance. 

One day at work he made the fatal mistake of mentioning that he hadn’t been sleeping much. Turned out, everyone and their mother was an expert on sleep problems. Get some lavender oil, he was told, and drink camomile tea. He heard about the slumber-inducing wonders of saunas, probiotics, acupuncture, ear-candling, Indian head massage, and “whiskey, served in bed by a buxom woman of Irish extraction” - that last pearl of wisdom was from Al, a forty-something beat cop, same guy who took to prodding him in the ribs and saying, “Grayson, ya know what your problem is? You live in Gotham fucking city! No one gets to sleep here!”

As one bad night turned into three in a row, then a week, then he could barely remember when he’d last gotten a full six hours straight, his patience began to run thin. One night he was slumped up against his headboard, naked and sweaty but not in the fun way. Dick’s bones ached with fatigue, and his nerves were jangly. All he wanted was to sleep, and part of him wanted to throw himself on the floor and beat it with his fists in rage. It was so unfair, and irrational, and he was beyond cranky and heading towards slightly homicidal to whoever invented stereo systems. 

Google also had a lot of sleep suggestions. Jerking off - tried that, got too angry and distracted by the UNF UNF beat coming from upstairs. Hot milk - it was sweltering in his apartment, and he didn’t think drinking something like soup would help him out. Lavender oil - had finally tried that last week, and only made him smell like air freshener. 

A stupid listicle thing popped up in the sidebar of the site he was browsing. _10 Proven Sleephacks._ He clicked through to it, already feeling resentful. 

There were magic pillows, magic pillowcases, and magic mattresses, all available for sale, along with white noise machines, and more goddamn lavender oil. What, was there a surplus of the stuff people were trying to shift? Had lavender taken over the Eastern seaboard or something? 

Slide 9 out of 12 was _Make your sleep space a peaceful oasis_ : “Decorate in a soothing color palette.” It was 2.30am and Dick was in no mood to repaint his walls. He almost threw his phone across the room, but instead he mechanically slid to the next suggestion. 

Slide 10. _Try listening to an ASMR video._

Dick had never heard of ASMR before, so he glanced at the description - autonomous sensory meridian response, didn’t ring a bell - and clicked onto the embedded video out of curiosity. The browser jumped to YouTube, and a blonde woman was waving her hands at him and whispering. She had a foreign accent - Eastern European, he thought - and was saying that she would recite her favorite “trigger words” to give the viewer “tingles”. Leaving the video on, Dick went back to find the tab with the listicle on it, see what nonsense number 11 was. 

Slide 11 told him _Try a long walk in a forest before bed_ , really practical in the middle of downtown Gotham. Slide 12 was _Start a sleep diary_ , which should have made him furious, but he just stared at the screen, slack jawed. 

“Stipple, stipple, stipple, stipple,”

It was like his head was being gently rubbed, but from the inside. He felt like his skin was a little looser, his spine flickering with phantom comfort. Going back to the video, he turned it up.

“Tickle, tickle, tickle,” She was leaning towards the camera in soft focus, whispering in an even pace, with emphasis on the ck sound. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and Dick remembered a Geography class at school with Miss Hudson and how he’d loved hearing her say “Orinoco” and “Kuskokwim” when they did the world rivers module.

The video was twenty minutes long. Dick restarted it from 00:00 and laid back in bed with the volume on full. He was asleep before he heard the ending. 

 

He used the same video for a few nights, then got curious enough to search for more of the same. According to YouTube, there were about ten million of them. There was a whole lingo for Dick to learn, from ‘RPs’, meaning role plays, ‘3D sound’ and binaural for a kind of audio recording technique. Then there were the different sub-genres (best friend, medical treatment, hotel bookings, cranial eye exams, chakra readings tapping, chewing), and the creative flourishes people had come up with: no meme escaped an ASMR interpretation, there were even horror ASMR videos, ‘unintentional’ ASMR, and animal ASMR, which was usually someone’s kitten purring, but he’d also seen pet rats, lizards, and turtles get involved. 

Within weeks he’d picked up a core group of favourite ASMRtists and videos. There was one guy who did chess videos which he really liked, but aside from him - sorry fellas, women pwned the ASMR game. One woman specialised in medical procedure videos, and before her he had no idea an ear and throat examination could be so soothing. Another did a great “best friend” RP series, where she’d brew you a tea (he was grateful when she crinkled the tea bags before unwrapping them) and chat to you about your day. It was silly, Dick thought, to take comfort from someone telling him the shoes he had bought were cute, but he just zoned out during the chatter. 

One evening, he was stretching out his hamstrings before bed and reached for his phone to find a vid. His YouTube recommendations was largely ASMR now, which was way better than when it had been viral prank videos or those “Lex Luthor is in the Illuminati” conspiracy things. There was one called ‘ASMR: Progressive Relaxation After a Workout [Whispering]” that sounded just about perfect, so he threw it on. 

“Hello, this is a video for after a hard workout, when your body needs to relax and enjoy all the benefits of your exercise.”

The audio was good: no background static, her whisper soft but audible. 

“Make sure you’re in a comfortable position. If you can, lay down. Turn the lights off if you like. Just be aware of your body, and my voice. I want to help you get as relaxed as possible,”

Stretching out one leg, Dick grabbed his foot and curled to touch his forehead to his shin. Whoever this woman was, her whisper was excellent, and he could feel a heavy case of tingles creeping up his spine and fuzzing around in his head. 

“Breathe in, nice and slow, and let your belly expand. Now, slowly breathe out. Let go of all your tension, all your worries of the day. Your only job now is to be calm.”

That was just what he needed to hear. Dick moved through the last of his stretches in autopilot, letting the whisper lap at the edges of his mind. As he finished, he lay down in savasana and let all his muscles go, just as the voice said, “melt into the floor...like you are made of butter.”

Butter. He liked that. Maybe he could just sleep here, on the carpet, seemed like a terrific idea. 

He hadn’t brushed his teeth yet, and a nagging voice in his head reminded him of how unpleasant his one and only cavity had been. Groaning, he sat up and picked up his phone as he moved towards the bathroom. That had been a great video, and worth a Like. Maybe even a Subscribe. Throwing his phone on the bed, he made a note of the channel’s name: _Oracle ASMR._

There were twelve videos posted by Oracle ASMR, and soon Dick had them all memorised. They were all intoxicating, and Dick couldn’t help but wonder about the woman behind the voice. None of them showed her face, or even her hands. Instead she’d put the audio track over an abstract visual, showing stuff like stars, fractals, and time lapse cloud movements. 

She didn’t exaggerate her whisper, or simper, or talk too quickly, but seemed to be able to pitch her voice in just the right tone to give Dick a nice headbuzz. Whatever she was talking about, she always seemed to be 100% committed to it, whether it was a description of how to touch type or a guided relaxation. She had a couple of role plays - a hotel receptionist, which was fine but bland, and one called ‘Calming You Down After Successful Rescue Attempt’ which was, in Dick’s humble opinion, maybe the greatest work of art since the Sistine Chapel job. 

From then on, Dick had two kinds of favorite ASMR videos - there were Oracle’s, and then, far below hers, all the others. She only posted sporadically, which as far as he was concerned, made every video extra special. 

One time he tried to listen to ‘Rescue Attempt’ while slogging through some paperwork on his ancient work computer, only to find himself nodding off midway through. He stopped, got some coffee, and threw on a Clash album to wake himself up. This was powerful stuff. From then on he only deployed ASMR videos for doing stretches at home and getting to sleep. If sometimes he filled in his reports by imagining Oracle reciting them out loud, that was his business. 

 

It’d been a rough day, and Dick got home late, rueing his decision to take the subway instead of walking. His knee had been sore, and he had two bags of groceries to carry, so he had thought it would be easier to get a train. The Gotham public transport authority had different ideas, staging a fire drill test which left a woman in his carriage in a panic attack. She’d stumbled backwards into Dick, who’d dropped his groceries to stop her from falling, getting an elbow in the face as she flailed and he heard the jar of pasta sauce he’d just bought smash on his right sneaker. 

Within a few minutes of calm talking and a helpful handful of McDonald’s napkins the anxious woman was feeling better and no on had gotten hurt by the broken glass. He assured her that it was no big deal, and really, it shouldn’t have been. Dick never usually bought the stuff, but it was that fancy organic kind and it had been on sale. Spotting it on the shelf he’d thought how maybe one day he’d have someone around to his place for dinner and would need to impress them. 

He didn’t feel very impressive covered in marinara sauce, limping home to unlock the door of his empty apartment. After getting out of the shower and fixing himself a restorative bowl of cereal, he padded into his bedroom and dropped down on the comforter. Stretching out, he picked up his tablet, and checked his YouTube feed. 

Perhaps his luck wasn’t so bad. Not one, but two new Oracle videos had been posted. One seemed to be a straightforward ASMR video, called “Whispered readings from Marcus Aurelius”. The other was “Channel Update - Launching the #ThompkinsClinicFundraiser series”.

He clicked on that one first. Oracle had never posted an update about her channel before, plus he was curious if the Thompkins Clinic she was talking about was the one in Gotham. 

The video opened with a timelapse film of a bud sprouting from a seed, with the hashtag floating above it. Then Oracle’s voice started. Dick felt that familiar shiver down his spine with her words. 

“Hello, everybody, and thank you all for your support, likes, subscriptions, kind comments...I was shocked when I got 100 views, so I can barely believe how many of you have watched my videos.”

He glanced at the little subscribers box. Dick was one of eighteen thousand, apparently. Honestly, he thought she deserved way more, like six million or whatever Bieber had, but she sounded genuinely humble and grateful. 

“Lots of you leave comments asking me if I have a tip jar, or a Patreon. I don’t, and I am lucky enough to be in a position where I can make these videos for fun. It’s gratifying to see comments saying I help people relax and find calm, I think we all need more of that.”

She wasn’t whispering, but she was talking in a low voice, and Dick could imagine himself listening to this later just for general chilling out. 

“Being able to help people is a real joy. One of my heroes is a woman called Dr. Leslie Thompkins, who has been helping underprivileged groups in Gotham receive essential medical care for many years now. After the earthquake, I volunteered at a Thompkins clinic and I saw just how amazing and important this work is.”

Dick wondered for a moment - he’d also helped out at a couple of Leslie’s clinics after the quake; could he have met Oracle? The voice didn’t sound familiar, but then, the context was very different. 

“Which is why I thought to start a small fundraising project for a new clinic that Leslie is opening. Although the Wayne foundation is being very generous with its funding for essential medical equipment, I really want to get a nice couch for the nurses’ lounge. Every clinic I have ever been in - and I have been in many - always sticks the most beat-up, cheapest furniture in the nurse lounge, and I want to get them a really good couch. And maybe a decent coffee machine.” 

By now Dick was laughing out loud. It was a brilliant idea, and he bet the nurses would love it. He’d drunk enough terrible instant coffee in clinics that the taste of the stuff still reminded him of those difficult first weeks after the quake.

“What I’m proposing is to match any donations up to one thousand dollars. I’ll pick three donors at random to get a personalised video of their choice. By the way, there’s a terms and services agreement on the donation page, so I retain the right to veto any video idea I don’t like.”

Big-hearted, but not stupid. Dick shuddered to think the kinds of suggestions people might have. He’d glanced at the comments sections a few times. Things got weird down there. 

“Just click the link on-screen now if you’d like to donate. I promise I’ll post pictures of the couch if we get there. And regardless of whether you donate, thank you all for your support. Have a good night, wherever you are.”

Dick had a sudden surge of energy that got him up on his feet to grab his wallet. Throwing himself back down on the bed, he hit the link to the donations page, worrying that no one else would contribute. God, that would be the worst. He started to calculate how much he could submit, and whether it would be better to do one sum or break it into chunks to make look like several people? But then maybe he’d need several email accounts and suchlike. 

It was needless worry; by the time the page loaded, he saw that $570 had already been raised, and the video had only been live a couple of hours. Still, it’d be a shame if she didn’t hit target, so Dick put $150 down. He was saving money anyway, with his bad knee keeping him cooped up over summer, and he could wait on buying the new sneakers he’d had in his Amazon basket for a month. 

He listened to the fundraiser video again as he was trying to drop off, but he found he kept obsessively refreshing the donations page, watching the amount creep up. Deciding to cut himself off, he switched to a vintage Oracle video, “Microphone testing with brushes and whispers pt II”, and let her lull him to sleep. 

The next morning went like most mornings did in Casa Grayson. Alarm went off, and he was up - Dick had it drilled into him since childhood never to ignore any kind of alarm - he staggered over to his warm-up space to begin his usual pre-gym warm-up, after which he walked the ten or so steps to the kitchen and drank a pint of water. Then, gym gear on, grab phone and wallet, and head out the door. 

It wasn’t until he was halfway down the stairs that his brain began to really wake up. There had been something he was going to check in the morning - what was it? 

_Oracle’s donation page_. Fumbling with his phone, he broke his usual stride leaving the building and almost missed the revolving door handle. Outside, the roadworks hadn’t even started yet, and the city was just getting the first light of the day. He watched the page slowly load, cursing the bad wifi, until he saw the current amount: $1014.50.

Oracle had already passed her goal. The nurses’ couch would be bought. Dick knew that most people were good, and liked to help each other out, but it never hurt to be reminded of the fact. He whistled his way to the gym, thinking that Gotham had never looked lovelier. 

The email arrived a week later. He read it lying in the recovery area at the blood donation clinic. Ever since the earthquake, he gave blood every three months. It was a good time to catch up on messages and eat cookies. 

“Hello, and thanks so much for your generous donation to the #ThompkinsClinicFundraiser. We made over $5,000 in a few days, I’m still in shock! I’ll be posting updates to my channel, but I wanted to thank you for your contribution and let you know how successful we were.

Thanks so much, 

Oracle.”

It was a form email that was clearly BCC’d. She must’ve sent to a ton of people, but still Dick went ahead hit reply. He was a bit woozy from giving blood, or maybe a little hopped up on sugar. 

“Hi Oracle!

I’m really happy to hear that! I bet the nurses at the clinic will be, too. I really like your videos, thanks for making them, and thanks for doing this fundraiser - I volunteered at the 86th St & the Oak Ave Thompkins clinics after the quake, met some amazing people there, and they deserve the very best coffee in the world. 

All the best - Dick Grayson.”

One of the volunteers stopped by and offered him a muffin. He figured it would be rude to say no, plus, he was celebrating. 

The next day at the gym, he remembered his email and felt a pang of regret. He probably came across like a weirdo, or a stalker. A stalker weirdo. 

Checking his phone on the way to work, he saw a reply, except it was from a different email address - instead of the from line saying “Oracle ASMR”, it read “Barbara Gordon”.

“Hi Dick, 

Thanks for your email! I agree, they deserve the best coffee - that has turned out really well, someone got in touch with me who is a rep for Bertinelli Coffee and they’re going to donate a machine and a whole bunch of coffee to go with it. I get annoyed when people complain about Gothamites being cold and unfeeling, when they’re so often warm and generous (as long as you don’t try to cut in line at the deli, that is). 

I know some of the staff at Oak Avenue clinic, they remembered you - Rosalita said you were, I quote, “the _hombre muy guapo_ they sent from the _policía_ ”, ahaha! I don’t think we could have met because I think I’d recall... plus I usually worked from the clinic’s IT department. 

Would you like to get a personalised video? Let me know if you have any ideas - I planned to do them randomly but you were one of the biggest donors and I’d love to make something for you.

Thanks again - Barbara AKA Oracle”

Dick swaggered into work, secure in his cookie-based decision-making abilities. He got around to sending a reply at the end of the day, trying not to agonise too much over the wording. 

“Hi Barbara,

Awesome to hear from you. Great news about the coffee! And I know what you mean about Gotham stereotypes - sometimes when I travel out of the city people tell me I can’t possibly be from here, because everyone from Gotham is a jerk?! I get this a lot in Metropolis. Funny that.

We probably didn’t meet. I am not to be trusted in an IT department, I’m the guy who opened the random email attachment at work and unleashed a virus - in my defence, it looked almost exactly like our regular 019 forms, and the same IT dude who yelled at me about it later told me that there was a weakness in the firewall I’d accidentally helped him locate. 

Did you go to the benefit concert that Black Canary put on afterwards? It was incredible. I never listened to their music before, but I do all the time now. 

The personalised video - wow! I have no idea, to be honest. I’m always amazed at the creative things ASMR people come up with. If I think of anything, I’ll let you know. 

Have a great night, 

Dick”

The reply came back twenty minutes later. Not that he was checking, or anything.

“Hey, 

I can believe that about Metropolis, but I think they’re just jealous of us, deep down. I didn’t see that Black Canary concert, I was out of town at the time, but I have seen them live. Believe it or not, I used to be roommates with the lead singer, Dinah. She’s great - I use a wheelchair, and she used to raise hell if venues weren’t accessible for me to come along. Think they’re touring Asia right now. I’ll let her know she made a new fan back home. 

Coming up with video ideas can be hard! That’s one of the reasons I don’t post as much as other artists, that and I’m kind of a perfectionist about my audio quality. 

Let me know if you want to grab a coffee and talk about it :)

Best, 

Barbara”

A smiley face and a coffee invite - this had escalated rapidly. Not that Dick minded. He could see his upcoming coffee-drinking schedule being very free. 

“Hi Barbara, 

OK you know Dinah? Tell her she’s got a mind-blowing voice (well, so do you, just a different kind of mind-blowing). 

Coffee would be great! This weekend? I don’t have anything on either Sat or Sun afternoons.

All the best - Dick”

 

Guice Park wasn’t one of Gotham’s more famous parks, and for good reason. Some of the plants were struggling, the paths were cracked and littered with cigarette ends, and even if Dick hadn’t known the creepy broken-down ferris wheel at the center was once a murder scene, he could’ve guessed. But it was sunny, and there were kids running around with exhausted-but-fond parents trailing behind them, and some goth teenagers were hunched on a bench, sharing a copy of a comic book. It was the kind of park Dick felt at home in. 

He was tempted to do a few cartwheels, to take advantage of the springy patches of green grass that managed to flourish even in this half-forgotten corner of the city. It would calm his nerves, at least. His meet-up with Oracle was in 14 minutes and counting. She’d messaged him the name of the location, Cafe Barda, which was across the street from the park. From where Dick was standing he could make out the cafe’s blue and gold striped awning. He figured it wouldn’t hurt to go in early. He’d look relaxed and prepared, not over-eager and desperate.

Walking out of the park, he reminded himself of his number one goal for this meeting: _don’t be creepy_. 

Dick had a fairly solid internet dating history - a few horror stories (the plant-obsessed botanist who tried to slip a ‘herbal remedy’ in his drink was a particular low point) - but he’d never gone into the creep zone. 

Not that this was a date, it was just a meet-up with a complete stranger from the internet who made videos he used to fix his insomnia. That was all. Normal as anything.

The last of the afternoon sun was lighting up the cafe’s windows like a theatre set. There was a redhead sat at a table by herself, one arm on the window sill, and as a breeze lifted a strand over her hair over her shoulder, Dick stopped in his tracks. Time slowed down a little, as it does sometimes when you catch sight of a beautiful woman, but in this case he was also hit with a bone-deep conviction. That was her. It had to be. There was something in the thoughtful tilt of her head, the air of self-possession, the firm set of the shoulders suggesting strength. Part of Dick’s job was to be very good at making quick assessments at a glance. He let this glance go on for a little bit too long. This...was probably creepy. 

_Just get your ass into the cafe and check your phone, dingus_. It was enough of a pep talk to get him moving. 

It may not have been the pep talk that Dick deserved, but it was the pep talk that Dick needed. 

“Hey, Barbara?”

She looked up and smiled. “Hey. Looks like we’re both early.”

There was that voice. It was definitely her. The wheelchair was a giveaway, but even if he hadn’t seen it, he’d know that voice. He blurted out, “It’s so weird to hear you in person! I mean. Good weird.”

 _Sit down, dingus_. Dick sat down. Barbara was smiling, and not reaching for mace. “I guess it must be. I’ve never met anyone who listened to my videos before. It’s weird for me too.”

“Good weird?”

“Yeah, good weird.”

The sun lit up her hair, the same perfect colour as a maple tree, amber and red and gold. She was literally dazzling. Dick had done a little acting, he knew stage presence when he saw it. If she had decided to show her face on her videos, she’d be an even bigger hit. 

They ordered some coffees, and he admitted he hadn’t thought of any video ideas. “I don’t know how people come up with this stuff. Who thought - you know what’s relaxing? Eye examinations. But it works, somehow.” 

Barbara laughed, “I know. Though I never get the eye examination vids. Maybe because I’ve had glasses since I was twelve.” 

“And here I am, watching these eye videos, wishing I needed glasses just to get the exam.”

“I have had people ask me to do one, but I don’t think I can do a good job without the visuals. And nope, not showing my face on YouTube.”

“That makes sense. I mean, it’s YouTube.”

Scrunching her face up, she said, “So toxic in so many ways! But then, it gave us ASMR. Can you believe something good came out of the comment sections?”

“It’s like a fairy story! Or a dystopian one. ‘In a place where all hope was lost…’”

Barbara joined in with his movie trailer voice, “‘There was one man who brought people together…’”

In unison they said, “‘Bob Ross!’”

They laughed, and Dick slapped his hand on the table when Barbara mimed painting a happy little tree. He said, “Bob Ross deserved a Presidential Medal of Honor. Man was a legend.”

“You know he was originally a drill sergeant?”

“Get outta here.”

“Girl Scout’s honor,” She leaned forward, her chin resting on her hands. “The story goes, he left the army and resolved never to shout at anyone ever again.”

“What a guy. That is a very cool superhero origin story.” 

“Better than mine. My first video, I made it by accident.”

Dick thought, but didn’t say, _ASMR typing sounds and tapping at desk_. Posted eight months ago. He wasn’t going to tell her he remembered all that like some demented fanboy.

Barbara continued, “I had been recording a tutorial for someone, and left the camera running for ten minutes. I edited the file, and for some reason, I didn’t delete it. I knew about ASMR, I’d read this funny blog about it on Gotham Time Out, and I named the clip ‘my asmr’ and left it in my miscellaneous videos folder.”

“You have a miscellaneous videos folder?”

“I like to be organised! And I’m a bit of a digital hoarder.”

“Well, you never know what will come in handy.”

She rolled her eyes and smiled. “I didn’t think it’d be _handy_ , but I have a friend who has been having sleep issues - I sent her that ASMR blog as a bit of a joke. She never got into it, but I came across some videos on YouTube, and I found the whole scene strange. And I like strange. It was dominated by women, it was non-commercial, it was helping people, it was creative, it was digital… all stuff I’m interested in.”

“And you posted your typing video, and ta-da! History was made.”

“I dunno about history. It was, let’s say, an experiment.” 

Dick swirled the last of his coffee in the cup. “An experiment in?”

“This is going to sound… OK, it was an experiment in being spontaneous. I had just broken up with someone, and I was working a lot, and I never do anything without preplanning it out from every angle, and yes, all those things were related.” She stopped, blowing out a long breath. “I made something that didn’t have a plan behind it. That’s weird for me.”

“You seem like a planner. I remember your vid on programming excel spreadsheets. I don’t even know what they’re for, but I liked it.”

“But - how do you budget?”

“I spend less than I make?” Dick’s biggest expenses were Netflix, sports tickets, and fancy breakfast cereals.

“That’s...an approach.” She smiled, and sipped her cappucino. Something in Dick’s chest flipped over.

“You’re a bit more organised than me, I guess.”

“Anal, even. No, it’s kind of true, not sort-my-socks-by-size-and-weight anal, but I keep things in order. It’s systems that interest me, their strengths and weaknesses. It’s what I do for a living - security, infrastructure, support, analysis.” 

Barbara said this lightly, waving her hand in a circle to wrap up the description of her work, as if she had tried to explain it to too many people whose eyes glazed over halfway through. 

She continued, “But I hadn’t done anything creative in so long. And I’d finished up a huge contract, it had kind of burned me out. My friends said I should take a holiday but I’m a freelancer, it’s hard for me to step away, and there was this little job I was doing for an old client as a favor. It paid well, but was only part-time, and I had plenty of downtime where I had to be at my workspace, in case the client needed me on call, but didn’t have to work. So I made some more videos to stave off boredom.” 

“Idle hands?”

“Are the devil’s playthings? Are you suggesting my videos are evil?”

“No! Unlike some YouTube commenters, I don’t think ASMR is satanic, or witchcraft, or that 

there’s hidden messages designed to make me an axe murderer.”

“That’s a relief. I don’t want to be the stereotypical girl who meets someone from the internet and they turn out to be an axe murderer.”

“I think if you wanted to meet one, there’s a subreddit for that.”

She laughed. “Probably.”

“So, you stuck up a video, everyone loved it,”

“No - no one even watched them at first! I was just so interested in the audio technology, layering sounds, making ordinary things - rubber bands, mouse pads, pencil erasers - sound otherworldly and relaxing. Remember, I used to live with Dinah, and I’m a terrible singer, and can’t play a single instrument. This was the first time I made something sound cool.”

“Did no one ever tell you that your speaking voice is lovely?” Dick didn’t really mean to blurt that out there, but he couldn’t believe she’d not had it commented on before. Barbara blushed, looking down at the table. After a moment, she said, “No.”

“Well, it is. And if that ex of yours never mentioned it, I mean, I understand why they’re an ex.”

“He was…” she tapped her fingers, “not the most communicative of guys. And, to be fair, I don’t do much talking. I mean, I’m not what you’d call shy, but I stick to myself, work remotely, only have a few close friends - before I started making the videos I had no idea how long I could go without saying anything. Especially now you can order food online.” 

“Oh, as someone who lives alone, I know, that’s fatal. Mind you, my work means I talk with people all day, but I get you. Whole weekends can go past and you’re Netflixing and then, Sunday evening, when you realise,”

“Where were the other people?”

“Something like that.” He hoped he didn’t sound too pathetic. “It’s not every weekend, or anything, and I play a lot of sports, have friends all over. But once you head towards your thirties there’s fewer people available to just hang.”

She nodded, and asked him if he wanted another coffee. Dick suggested they get them to go, and have a walk in the park. 

One of the handiest things about walking with someone in a wheelchair, Dick discovered, was that if the person was both really organised and a caffeine addict, they had cupholders that clipped on the arm rest. 

“Nifty gadget,”

“Thanks,” Barbara said, “I couldn’t find one I liked, so I got this 3D printed.”

“Very cool. I’ve always wanted to play with one of those things - ah!” He stopped to flex his leg. 

“Something wrong?”

“Eh, nothing - I hurt my knee a while back, and even though I’ve been careful, I think I overdid it at the gym this morning.” 

They had stopped on the edge of an overgrown pond, the dappled light reflecting on Barbara’s face. She gestured for him to raise his leg, and he did, letting her hands run up his calf and around the bones of his ankles. Clicking her tongue, she said, “Your muscles are way too tight, no wonder it hurts.”

“Guess I’ll jump on the foam roller tonight,”

She looked up at him, her hair spilling over her face, saying mock-seriously. “You better. No ASMR for you until it’s done.”

Bending forward, he softly said, “I promise,” and gently pushed her hair behind her ear. She blushed a little, smiling, and let go of his leg. He moved his foot back to the ground, and as they walked on, he kept thinking about the impression her hands had made on him. 


	2. Shout It from the Rooftops

Propping his phone up on a chair, Dick tried to get the angle of the camera right. The Skype app showed a tiny version of what Barbara was seeing - him, on his mat, getting ready to roll out his legs. It had begun as a joke, that she would check up on his rehab, but for the last couple of nights she’d kept him company as he did his stretches. 

“Nice t-shirt - what does it say?”

“This?” He raised a hand from where it had been balanced on the floor to rub at his chest. “From the Gotham Night Run a couple of years back. I liked the bat logo they used.”

“Is that the one where people dress up with glow sticks and stuff?”

“Yeah, some out-there costumes show up.” He lifted up to roll out his hamstrings on the foam roller, and tried not to show the pain on his face. “I thought I’d get, like, jet lag from running at night, but I really loved it. The route went all through some of the historic areas, and they lit up City Hall with blue lights just for us.” 

“So, you’re more of a night owl than a lark?”

“Definitely,” he switched over legs, “I get up early because that’s the way the world is, but left to my own devices I’ll stay up all night. You?”

“Total night person. But I’m a freelancer, so I get to set my own hours. Leads you to do wacky stuff, like making these strange videos for people to relax to,”

“Really? That sounds pretty weird. What kind of freak would do that?”

She laughed, and Dick wished she was really there, in his room, instead of on the tiny screen and inadequate speakers of his phone. Now that he’d heard her in person, any recorded version seemed lacking. 

 

The next night, he left work around nine. He’d volunteered to help out with the relocation of a bunch of archives, one of those post-earthquake jobs that had needed to be done for ages but no-one had gotten around to, and finally it was finished. Rolling his shoulders, he fished out his phone from his pocket. Even though he’d been lifting boxes for several hours, he didn’t feel that tired, and he was wondering if someone else was just as awake as him. 

Leaning against a lamppost he sent Barbara a text: _Hey I got out of work late - haven’t had dinner. U know the Clock Tower diner? Want to keep another night owl company?_

The reply came back a minute later. _Love to. I’ve been coding for six hours straight and feel brain dead. See you in 30?_

The Clock Tower was an all-night diner which did the best BBQ wings Dick had ever tasted. He’d just sat down when he heard the doors open and two wheels cruise over the lino floor. 

“How’s it going?” 

She smiled, “Good, fine. This was a great idea, I needed to get out of the house.”

He could see the touches of fatigue under her eyes. “Why do I get the idea you’re a workaholic?” 

She rolled her eyes and picked up the menu, “Now, here’s my dilemma - do I have a proper meal or go straight for the apple pie?”

He bonked her on the head with his menu. “Do I need to start making the ‘take care of yourself’ speeches?”

“Pie is self-care.”

“True,” he said, “but only if you get it with ice cream.”

After they ordered food, he told her about the archives, and she asked him some complex questions about information management strategy that he was completely unable to answer. 

“I can tell you about the boxes of files, and the strategy there - it involved carrying them up two flights of stairs.” 

“Your hands OK?” She reached out for them, turning them palm-up in her hands. “Looks like you’ve got a blister, here.”

With the gentlest of touches, she outlined the pale spot under his index finger, and then rubbed a soft circle into the palm of his hand. He let his fingers splay open, heavy in her grasp. 

“Ah, it’s from the gym, they refitted it with some new equipment and the barbells don’t like me.”

Something flickered in Barbara’s expression, and she put his hands down and pulled hers away, almost as in defence. Sticking a fork in her apple pie, she casually asked “Does the police gym still have that beautiful art deco tiling?” 

“Yeah it does - wait, how do you know I use the police gym?”

“I’m a professional busybody. I specialise in knowing things that other people want to know.”

“Uh-huh.” Dick leaned back in his chair. “Oracle by name, and by trade.” 

“Something like that. I do some contract work for the Bureau, which is one reason I know about the police gym. I’ve swum in that pool.”

“They let contractors into the pool?”

“No, but they let the daughter of the Commissioner in.”

“Barbara Gordon.” He clicked his fingers and pointed at her. “You’re that kind of Gordon.”

“Yep. That kind of Gordon.” She lowered her eyes again, down to the pie.

He reached out for her hands, missing their warmth. “That’s cool. He’s a great guy.”

Barbara looked away, her face falling. The mood of the table suddenly went icy. “Mmm.” 

With no idea what had happened, he shook his head. “I’m sorry - am I getting something wrong?”

“Dick, will you be honest with me? Do you think of me just as a friend? Because this feels kind of like a date.”

She was just going to put that right out there, wasn’t she? Luckily for Dick, those were easy questions to answer. He swallowed, and kept it as honest as she had. “That’s because it kind of is. Is that a problem? Well, from the look on your face, I can tell that’s a problem. Are you seeing someone?”

Barbara shook her head, looking away from him again. He doubted the floor was that interesting. So he continued, “Do you only see _me_ as a friend?”

Now she looked up at him. “No,” and his heart did a little jig, until she continued, “but it’s complicated.”

“It is?”

Sighing, she wrung her hands. “I can’t date a cop, Dick. Not seriously. My dad’s your boss, I do work for the force sometimes - even with Internal Affairs. My security clearance is high. The conflict of interest would be too much. I worked really hard to get where I am, and I can’t give that up - I really wish you wouldn’t laugh,” 

She was getting pissed off, and Dick knew he shouldn’t be giggling. It was a good speech, and he was fascinated to hear the rest of it. But now she was glaring at him, so he tried to regain composure and keep a straight face as he said, “I’m not a cop.”

“You’re not?” Her brow creased, confused. Dick couldn’t help but laugh more.

“I thought you were meant to be good at research…hey!” 

She was swatting the air with frustration, but Dick only moved closer, still cracking up. 

“But aren’t you with the force? You were wearing a GCPD t-shirt the other day, you know what an 019 form is, your work address is a precinct - so who are you?”

“I’m a physical therapist. I was sure we’d had this conversation, but I guess not. I work in one out of the new therapy centers at the gym, behind the main precinct, though I do house calls and go to different centers and stuff. Your dad isn’t my boss, technically, though he did spearhead the funding of the program I’m part of - I’m very grateful - _mmph,_ ”

Dick did have a speech of his own, on how Commissioner Gordon’s proactive approach to physical therapy for his officers had seen a drastic reduction in long-term injuries on the force, on a paper Dick and his supervisor were writing about Gotham’s new physical training strategy for for a medical journal, on the structure of the force and support teams, but he guessed it would have to wait because Barbara had grabbed him by the back of the head and started kissing the bejeebus out of him. 

 

The next day at work someone asked him if he’d beaten his sleeping problems. “‘Cause you’re looking much better and there's even spare coffee in the coffeepot.” 

“Yeah,” Dick said, knowing he was smiling like a loon. “I’ve been sleeping like a log.” 

Then he went back to texting Barbara. Or, as she’d told him he could call her, last night when they’d finally left the diner and gone their separate ways, Babs. 

That afternoon she sent a message, saying she’d be working through most of the night and would be out of contact - but if he had time, he should check his YouTube feed, “see if there are any interesting updates.”

He managed to resist checking until right before bed. There was only one recommended video he was interested in; it was only ten minutes long, and had been posted just a few hours ago. 

Oracle ASMR: #ThompkinsClinicFundraiser video special - **Physical Trainer Session**

Laughing, he said out loud in his bedroom, “Lady, you better not just be using me for inspiration!”

When he texted the same thing to Babs, she sent back a reply quick as a wink: _No, I’m interested in your body, too_. 

Thank God for that. 

 

The re-opening of the Thompkins Clinic was a black-tie affair, with the creme de la creme of Gotham’s philanthropic society leaders attending. The charity auction was a huge success, and the guests enjoyed fine _haute cuisine_ created by a celebrity chef, French champagne, and a moving speech by Dr. Thompkins herself. 

Barbara and Dick skipped it. 

They’d gone in earlier to see how the prep for the big night was going and whether they could help. Dick got roped into helping lug tables into the entry hall, while Babs did some IT rescue work. Leslie was doing rounds, as the clinic was already operating on reduced capacity, but she sent her assistant out to say thanks. 

“And you’re welcome to attend, of course,” she said, stabbing at her phone in between glancing at them. “We can find a table for you.”

“No,” Dick said.

“No,” Barbara said at the same time. 

“- thanks, and all - ”

“We’re sure it will be great, but,” Barbara had already thrown her chair into reverse. 

“We have prior arrangements.” Dick walked swiftly to catch up with her. 

‘Prior arrangements’ was making the most of the first night either of them had both had off since the last Oracle ASMR video had been posted. Barbara had taken on a big contract from Wayne Corp. “Plus,” she told Dick in the Skype call they’d had the day before, “I feel like my ASMR career may be ready to wind down.”

“No more whispering?” 

“I might save my whispers for a more select audience.”

 

They ate sushi at a local place around the corner from Barbara’s apartment. She ordered for them both, in fluent Japanese, and looked a little abashed. “Sorry. They’re so used to me here.”

Dick had noticed the warm greetings they’d gotten on their way in. “The hostess seemed surprised to seat us?”

She grimaced a little. It was too cute for words. “I usually get to go. Or order delivery. It’s a bit of a bad habit you fall into, when you work from home.”

He smiled back at her as he dunked some sashimi into the wasabi. “You don’t have to explain, I’m a breakfast cereal-for-dinner kinda guy. Which is hypocritical, given the amount of nutrition advice I dole out to my clients.”

Barbara snorted at that. “I know cops. They eat all kinds of crap.”

“It’s a stressful job,” he shrugged. “We’re not programmed to reach for celery sticks when we’re under duress. My thing is popcorn - buttery, salted, the movie theatre stuff. I can eat that all day.”

“Maybe we should go to a movie tonight, then.” Her eyes sparkled. 

“We...we could do that. If you like.”

“Remind me what plan A was again?” She leaned forward on the tiny table. 

Dick put his chopsticks down, and traced a line from her right fingertip, across the back of her hand, over to the inside of her wrist. They’d talked about tonight’s plans quite extensively on the phone beforehand. So extensively Dick had needed to clean up afterwards. 

“Something about going back to your place, getting comfortable, you showing me your cyber security certificates?” 

“Ah, yes, that was it. I am certified in all the major security protocols.”

“And I am very interested in checking out your credentials.” 

The server looked very happy to give them their check. Dick wasn’t 100% sure what the Japanese was for “You go, girl,” but he could swear that he heard it on the way out. 

 

When they were making out on Barbara’s couch, Dick had momentarily floated back to the time he’d been exhausted and cranky, lying in his bed by himself listening to her voice sooth him to sleep. Now Dick was thinking, _Babs is sitting on her bed, looking at me_. Oracle ASMR, possessor of the sexiest voice on the internet, Barbara Gordon, security expert, and _Babs_ , the bubbly redhead with soft eyes in the skimpy green tank top, he’d met them all and now got to stand in her bedroom, being beckoned over to the side of her bed. 

Before he moved he said, “I’ll do anything you like. Just - will you talk to me, please?”

“Like this?” she said, in the whisper that rolled around Dick’s head and down his spine, a voice that was soothing and tingling all at once. 

He nodded, feeling dumbstruck, and walked towards her uplifted hands. 

“I want to undress you, Grayson.”

It was far from the dirtiest thing he’d ever heard before sex, but it went straight to his pants, nonetheless. He kicked off his shoes and stood between her knees. Barbara’s fingers were under his shirt, smoothing over the planes of his body - “Impressive six pack, champ” - and to his back. She lifted it off him, then squeezed at his biceps. 

“I bet you intimidate the hell out of your clients.”

“Me? Nah,” he smiled down at her.

She rolled her eyes. “You look like a Greek god, and you’re telling them how to get well again? They must either want to hit you or kiss you.”

“Neither has happened so far.”

Fingers pressed long lines down his pecs and sternum. She sounded a little breathless, “I know a few athletes, but you really are something else.”

Pulling him down into a kiss, a few of those busy fingers slipped under the top of his underwear, while his jeans were unzipped with deliberation. 

He wasn’t sure if it was OK to start touching back, but he was so close to her, it felt right to trail his hands over her head, through a few strands of that striking hair, and down to squeeze her pale, strong shoulders. 

“I want to touch you - ” Barbara’s hand was cupping the side of his face.

“You got me,” He reassured her.

“Not your head, your cock, dumbass.”

Least he could do was oblige. He shook off his jeans and stood wide, cowboy style, concious of his hardon making a bulge in his boxer briefs, which only bulged the more that Barbara ran her fingers up and down the fabric, until the head was peeking out of the waistband. “Eager, I like to see that.”

“It’s all you - your voice, your hands, your _hair_ , Babs…”

“What is it with guys and redheads?”

He didn’t have an answer for that, too transfixed by the sight of Barbara peeling his underwear off. They slipped to the floor as she lightly grasped his cock. “This gives me...so many ideas. You’re more inspiring than a Pinterest moodboard.”

Laughing at that, he didn’t wince much as she took her hands away and rummaged around in the bedside table, coming up with a condom. With one hand holding him steady, she rolled it down him, saying “I like this part, getting you ready. It’s like putting gas in an engine, waiting for the moment it ignites.”

She dropped a kiss on the tip of his cock, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “Can you please grab my legs for me?”

Barbara leaned back, and he lifted her legs up to the middle of the bed, keeping one hand on the curve of her hip. 

“Are you playing grabass with the paraplegic?”

“A nice ass is a nice ass, Babs. Whoever manages your PT should be proud of this muscle form.”

Then she asked, “Can we get these off, already?” while fiddling with the button of her jeans, and he obliged, rolling them down off her and tossing them on the floor, then crawled back up over her. Her legs were paler than her arms, sprinkled with caramel-colored freckles. She had already taken the tank top off, and god knows where the bra had gone, leaving her in a pair of plain white underwear. Barbara had rolled them down over her hipbones, and Dick took the suggestion and pulled them the rest of the way off, shivering at the sight of her naked in front of him. 

Barbara leaned back, one finger trailing over her lips, the other brushing her stomach. He could make out the firm muscles of her stomach, fluttering with heavy breathing, and the amber curls between her legs. She’d taped the catheter tube to her thigh, keeping it out of the way, and Dick could see the rosy folds of her vagina, contrasting with the milky paleness of her skin. She said, “How about we grab one of those - ” and gestured to a stack of pillows banked up by the headboard. He followed her directions and tucked it under her hips, lowering himself down between her knees. Close enough to smell her arousal, see the pink tips of her breasts in hard little points, her kiss-reddened mouth half-open showing a glint of tongue and teeth. 

Pressing his fingers down over her clit, he held her hand at the same time, extending a finger down her sensitive inner wrist. “Mmm, yes,” she said, and he pressed with a little more force and rhythm. 

He pushed his hips down into the mattress, hard as a rock, and took a deep breath to steady himself. A bottle of lube rolled down towards his head. “This stuff is a good idea,”

Kissing her above the bellybutton, Dick caught her eye and winked as he flipped the lid. It was nice smelling stuff, not as sexy as her own scent, but better than that cheap cherry stuff Dick had in his bedside table. He made a note to update his own supplies as he slicked up his fingers and pressed one into her. She rocked her shoulders back and forth, moaning “ _Yes_ , _yes_ ,” tugging on a nipple. 

Rubbing his cheek along the smooth skin of her inner thigh, he kept pushing his finger in, feeling the tremor of her inner walls responding. As her body opened up for him, he added another finger, gently scissoring them, adding a little more lube and using his other hand to rub her clit. “Feel good?”

She murmured back, “So good...I can feel it in my core, it feels warm, and zingy.”

“Like tingles?”

“Don’t you _dare_ , Dick.”

He laughed, and twisted his hand a little further in, pulling the pillow to shift the angle of her hips. 

Fingers brushed the top of his head. “Get back up here for a sec. Bring the lube.”

She slicked him up, from root to tip, and dotted his chest with little kisses as she did it. Once she started playing with his sac he had to stop her. “It’s too much, Babs, I won’t - ”

“And you still want to?” She smiled up at him in mock-innocence.

He bent down to bite her ear and say, voice choking with want, “I need to be inside you.”

Moving her legs a little wider, he pushed in, taking it slow, letting out a long moan. “Is it OK?”

“Keep going, Dick, I’m not going to break,” she held his face between her palms as he braced his arms either side of her. He pulled out a little, then back in with more force, beginning a steady rhythm. 

Abs clenching, she moved up against him, her breasts bobbing with every thrust, her head thrown back, that gorgeous hair tossed all over the pillow. 

She hooked her arms around his neck. “Hold on, Babs, as hard as you like.”

“God, Grayson - don’t stop, please,”

He cupped her hips and tilted them up, pushing harder, hearing her little moans under his harsh breathing. Inside, she was so hot, and felt so sweet. He could feel it begin to overwhelm him, his balls pulling up, his orgasm drawing a single point from the scattered mass of nerves ringing with pleasure. “Oh,” he gasped, looking down into her hers, “Oh, oh, fuck, god, yes, Babs!”

If his inarticulation bothered Barbara, she didn’t show it, squeezing his traps as he pumped into her, coming fast and hard. 

Slipping out of her, he rolled to the side and propped himself up on one elbow, moving his other hand back down between her legs. “Mmm,” she said, “that’s nice, but I might grab a little something else to finish?”

He kissed her, “Whatever you like. Oh, sorry,” his sweat was rolling onto her face. “Let me get that,”

“No, it’s - I like it. Just give me a sec,” 

She pulled a silver bullet vibrator from under a pillow, and held it between her legs, turning over to kiss Dick. As the vibe made her shudder, he wrapped an arm around her and kissed her forehead, soaking in the sounds she was making. 

Clicking it off, she sunk back into the mattress. Dick unrolled his condom and hopped off the bed to find the trashcan and a towel, both of which were easily located. “You want anything? Water?”

“A washcloth, please.” Her voice sounded wobbly, worn-out, and satisfied. Dick stuck his head around the doorjamb.

“Say something else.”

“What would you like?” She was pulling her hair into a ponytail, and smiling back at him. 

“Maybe…’stipple’”

He missed the pillow that was thrown at him. 

The next morning, Dick woke up to his alarm, and went to get up to exercise. He’d swung his legs to the side of the bed when he realised, his apartment didn’t look like this one, the view of Gotham out of the side window was far better than any view in his place, and the view on the other side of the bed was the best of all. 

Climbing back under the sheets, he watched Barbara stretch and rub her face. “ _Mmmmf_. Morning, handsome.”

“Mornin’,” he kissed her nose, cheek, and temple. 

She smiled up at him. “You’re pretty nice to wake up to. I still need coffee like breathing, though.”

Rolling over, she pulled her chair towards her. Dick lay back and rubbed his belly. “You know, of all the times I’ve fallen asleep with you, this was the best.”

“That is such a terrible line, I should throw you out on principle.”

“I haven’t had any coffee, either,”

“Are you saying your compliments improve after caffeination?”

“Well,” Dick mused, “not really. But you know what does improve?”

Turning her chair around to face him, an armful of clothes on her lap, Barbara asked, “What?”

“My waffle-making skills.” He winked at her, and she rolled her eyes.

“Top drawer, left-hand side of the kitchen.”

“What?”

“That’s where my waffle iron is. Let’s see if your game matches your talk, Grayson.”

Lying in the residual heat of her body, Dick propped himself up on an elbow and listened to the sounds of coffee-making coming from the kitchen. Barbara’s game definitely matched her talk, and then some. 

Getting out of bed and cracking his spine, he figured it was time to show her that his did, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [takhallus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/takhallus/pseuds/takhallus) and [zjofierose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose) for top-notch beta duty. Any remaining errors are mine.


End file.
